


Black Hole Eyes

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Blood and Injury, Casual necromancy, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mixed feelings, Mutual Crushes, Pastries, Post-Monster Skeleton Fighting Snacks, Skeletons, Slice of Life in Canaan House is a Wild Ride, Useless Lesbians, or what passes for it with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: Gideon had the foresight and the common decency to offer an injured Harrow something that wasn'tshitty drawer bread.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 90
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Black Hole Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).



> When I read your letter I burst out laughing at your quip about Gideon Nav reacting to a big ol' hamburger (seriously, what an enjoyable image!) but managed to restrain myself. 
> 
> Alas, the skeletons in Canaan House are not serving up hamburgers...but hopefully this will be to your liking!

Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Heir to the Ninth House, Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, midnight hagette and dark mistress of bones, was becoming an expert at passing out. A _bone-afide_ expert, Gideon thought, with a low chuckle. She wished Harrow was conscious so she could hear that one. She'd _hate_ it. Though to be honest, she hated a lot of the things that came out of Gideon's mouth.

She dropped Harrow onto the bed with a soft _plop_ , pretty sure that by now the bedsheets were covered in as much face paint as Gideon had gone through in the last year in the Ninth House. Probably not as much blood, though. Even unconscious, Harrow curled into her signature foetal position, all angles and knees and elbows. This was the closest to being vulnerable that Harrow got, and she was still liable to poke your eye out with one of her particularly sharp elbows, or maybe a sneaky chunk of jagged bone. Her robes had _way_ too many hidden pockets, and it wouldn't be all that shocking if Harrow had a collection of phalanges sewn into the seams of the damn things.

Gideon jerked her hand back when she caught herself about to push back the strands of hair plastered to Harrow's forehead in the familiar sticky mess of blood, sweat and paint. Instead, she fetched the jug of water and some pastries she'd pilfered. Well, not _exactly_ pilfered. But at least _she'd_ had the foresight and the common decency to offer something that wasn't shitty drawer bread.

Another talent of Harrow’s was to become so laser-focused on theorems and keys that she’d forget to eat or drink, and somewhere along the line Gideon had taken it upon herself to make sure that water and snacks were readily available when they returned to Harrow’s room. Back at _definitely-not-home,_ Gideon would probably have forgotten to eat as well, if she hadn’t had the hard-hitting reminder of Aiglamene’s sword during their training exercises. Gruel that managed to be thin, yet gritty with a weirdly chewy texture wasn’t particularly forgettable, no matter how much she _wished_ she could forget it. Amongst other things.

Harrow eventually opened those black hole eyes of hers, looked up to see Gideon at the foot of her bed, and had a coughing fit. Now was probably a good time to pass her the water and not the desserts, even if Gideon was desperate to sink her teeth into that delicious, golden pastry.

Harrow took short, slow sips until it subsided and she'd coughed up a foamy red saliva and pinkish phlegm on her sheets. It was almost artistic, if your idea of art was flinging body paints and bodily fluids at an off-white canvas. Gideon hoped Canaan House's skeleton servants weren't overly squeamish.

"What," Harrow croaked, eyes narrowed, "are _those?"_ She eyed the pastries in Gideon's lap, her pointy little nose turning upwards.

"They were all out of that nasty drawer food you love so much." Gideon paused, leaning forward before shifting her weight onto her least sore arm. "Besides, you know. Blood sugar."

"Why, Griddle, I didn't realise you were a trained physician." Gideon ignored the exasperation in Harrow's voice, and tilted her glasses for dramatic effect.

"I'm not _just_ a pretty face, Nonagesimus." She pushed her glasses back up as Harrow gave an undignified snort, and then started shaking. It took Gideon one panicked moment to realise she was doing so to keep laughter - _real_ laughter - at bay. She might have been in better shape than Harrow, but her muscles ached and her head was pounding, so she tried not to think too hard about Harrow laughing with her and not _at_ her, and what that meant. Instead, Gideon shoved a pastry at her.

These plaited pastries, studded with nuts and glazed with honey, weren't _quite_ as delightfully, delectably, _decadently_ delicious as the cream and fruit tartlets Magnus had served...but that was probably a good thing. Partly because she'd felt ever so slightly ill after inhaling four of them, but mostly because the memories of that night were far more bitter than sweet. If she tasted one of those tarts again she feared it would turn to ash in her mouth and cling to her tongue like a dusty grey coat.

Anyone looking at Harrow's face right then would have assumed that was what had happened to her. Once again she'd conjured a couple of helpful skeletons to prop herself up as she ate, because _of course she had._

"Are you trying to _poison_ me, Nav?" She was wearing that lemon-pucker scowl again, and Gideon briefly wondered if offering her the opportunity to bite into an actual lemon would counteract or enhance the effect.

"That's more _your_ style," she said a little coolly. Harrow winced visibly, and when they locked eyes something unspoken passed between them. So long as it _remained_ unspoken, so long as it didn't get _weird_ , that was okay, or at least what counted as okay in the ancient, crumbling walls of Canaan House.

Despite her acrid vocal protests, Harrow resumed eating, flakes of pastry sticking in the clots of paint around her lips or falling onto her pitch black robes. Gideon stuffed one in her own mouth, pleasantly surprised to find a burst of sweet and salty nut-flavoured cream hidden beneath the layers - he hadn't tasted _that_ in the quick bite she'd stolen before heading down to the facility.

Just as she was about to say something incredibly witty about cream and nuts, Gideon's overworked muscles spasmed. Instead of toppling off the edge of Harrow's bed she, _and_ her pastry, were caught by a long, bony arm. The third skeleton grinned at her with a full set of pearly white teeth that made her own look like crap. Once she recovered from that bizarre and, frankly, bizarre experience, she plucked her sweet treat from his bleached fingers.

"Thanks for, um, having my back there," she said, looking into the skeleton's black hole eyes instead of Harrow's. He gave her a brisk nod, and Gideon had to stifle a laugh. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Heir to the Ninth House, Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, midnight hagette and dark mistress of bones, was a truly _ridiculous_ person.

But, to be fair, so was Gideon the Ninth.


End file.
